Still not rested, although I’m getting to the point that I don’t quite remember the last time I awoke completely rested, I stumble my way into the wheel house to take a peak outside while pulling my hair back into a taming ponytail. My ears register that the Captain is talking on the radio. The double click of the transmit button catches my attention but I don’t look, not yet. The world is at rights. Gray sky above dark blue gray waters capped nicely in white.  That done, I use one hand to steady myself on port side console and the other to rub off more of the salt encrusted on my face, not trusting my knees to work as gimbals quite yet. His tone of voice sends off familiar alarms. Barely awake five minutes and already the games have begun.

“No : Hotel, Whiskey, Foxtrot, Foxtrot. Over.”

“Ah, can you repeat? That doesn’t make sense.”  Again, the captain keys the mic twice.

“OK, out.” comes the reply. 

Pretending that nothing is amiss, I keep my distance and ask what we have ahead of us. He goes along with this and gives me a brief idea of how long before the next string and how many pots are in it. “Oh, it’s in the trough.” He grins, always the Cheshire cat, he.

“Perfect!” I grin back. Not above my own deceptions.

But before heading below to find something that will pass as breakfast I look aft out the port window to the sort table that is precariously positioned on the second deck.  A catcher processor with a huge deck and they decide to put the sorting table up on the exposed second story. I felt the greatest pity for the poor souls that had to work up there, eighteen hour shifts, with no sea wall, no nothing between them and the open ocean and howling wind. The table is empty and no orange suited bodies are manning it, waiting for the next tote loads of crab.

Trying not to raise his attention, I head back into the stateroom and slip on my boots and grab my sampling gear. It is only three steps from the door to the stairs leading below but before I’ve got 4 steps, I hear him key the the loud hailer. Stealth lost, and perfectly awake now. I put on my raingear and in no time, I am standing by the butcher crew. Breakfast is a lost thought, the smell of boiled crab guts and rotting juices is the best appetite suppressor ever. Giving my best ‘it is so wonderful to see you this bright and happy morning’ smile, I lift an eyebrow above the noise of the factory and they let me find a place beside them. But they are unusually nervous.

The hoper gapes in front of us, a 10 foot wide, 4 feet tall space that is stuffed with slowly writhing snow crab legs, their blood red eyes staring through a curtain of sea water. With a quiet inward sigh I turn on my recorder and state the day and time and reach into the mass, grabbing a set of legs, yanking it free. I state its gender and then measure its carapace. Quickly and efficiently, I work my way taking samples like this all throughout the expanse and finding plenty to document. The guys beside me continue grabbing crab and splitting them on a blunt blade, using their bellies as a hammer, flipping the separated leg segments onto a conveyor behind them, guts splattering everywhere. I feel their glances flicker over me and not in hopes of easy entertainment, or a chance to make a marriage proposal. Their tension is different enough I leave my radar on even though it is difficult with my hood cinched down and cap pulled down to my brow against the deluge of factory and sea.

Finally, I make my way beside their best butcherer- Gene, with his John deer hat peeking under his rain hood. Gene, the mean green butchering machine, they call him. He leans over to me, his arms still flying.  “They’re filming you.” He says quickly.

“What?” I try to shout over the noise. Crab guts or sea water sprays my incautious turn of head.

“They are taping you.” He tries again.

My brain is not computing this. “They’re what?”

“Turn around” he says, jerking his head over his shoulder. 

I whirl around and see the disappearing head and shoulders of the factory foreman with the unmistakable black with shiny lens of a video camera in his hands, still pointed at me. Some of the crew is smirking. Some are studiously not paying attention. I turn back and finish my job. Gene is shaking his head. Tight lipped I finish my duties indoors and force my way out onto the deck. “POT!” I call. My face must be speaking volumes as usual. The deck crew goes from jovial smirking to dutifully quiet in no time.

I sample one pot, furiously recording everything and without pause, call for another and then another. By the end, I’ve sampled over 1/4^th of the string. Dripping with sweat under my rain gear and hunger pains eating me from the inside, I’ve calmed enough to gather a plan.

Chewing on an apple and some soda crackers, I compile the info off my recorder carefully, braced in my bunk. And then I go the Captain, politely waiting for him to have a minute.

“Do you remember what I said when I got on this boat?”

“Not really.”

“I said if you go by the book, I expect that we will get along just fine. If you don’t, expect that sooner or later I will catch you. And that will be no fun for anyone, remember?”

“Yes, actually, I do remember you saying that.”

“OK, do you know that your factory foreman was video-taping me?”

His face did that subtle shift I’d seen before- caught guilty. “No I didn’t! Let me talk to him.” He sits up straight. “Why would he do that?”

“I suspect to find something to black mail me with. I can tell you right now, you won’t find anything. You know why, right? Because I go by the book.  But I can tell you, if you keep dumping totes of unsorted crab into the hopper, I will have to collect evidence against you. I will have to report it first over the radio and we both know the Fish and Game codes are no secret.”

I pause and work on softening my stance. “I really feel for the guys up there. Have you already tried to bring that table down?” I let him run down the various scenarios they’ve already tried, adding anything that I think might be helpful.

I lean back against the door jam. “Do you wish to see the data I collected this morning? You guys came close, just .5% away from the legal limit- which is just one more undersized or female crab.”

“Wow… I thought it was cleaner than that.” I mentally tick off another guilty vote. “I will speak with him right now and if you ever have any other problems, come straight to me.”

“I will, right after I finish my sampling duties.” I give him a winning smile, turning on my heels.  His low laughter accompanies me back down stairs. 

Wednesday's Words: transmit, raise, hotel